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Mary Oliver died today. The poet was 83 years old, and while she lived she reminded us of the miracle inherent in the everyday details of our world: the white heron taking to the sky, sleepy cats dozing in the sun, a grasshopper perched on an open palm. She taught me to see the links between poetry and prayer, between attention, gratitude, and worship. She instructed my heart “over and over / in joy / and acclamation” — in “the prayers that are made / out of grass.”

She was a soul fully awake to life, and she welcomed her readers into that wakefulness — into a fearless embrace of the present moment. She was, indeed, “a bride married to amazement.” And I hope that I, too, can declare, when the end comes, that I wasn’t just a visitor to this place.

When Death Comesby Mary Oliver

When death comeslike the hungry bear in autumn;when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;when death comeslike the measle-pox

when death comeslike an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon everythingas a brotherhood and a sisterhood,and I look upon time as no more than an idea,and I consider eternity as another possibility,

and I think of each life as a flower, as commonas a field daisy, and as singular,

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,tending, as all music does, toward silence,

and each body a lion of courage, and somethingprecious to the earth.

When it’s over, I want to say all my lifeI was a bride married to amazement.I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it’s over, I don’t want to wonderif I have made of my life something particular, and real.

I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened,or full of argument.